A Doubt of Memory, Perchance Sanity
by Seraphim
Summary: If we met many years down the road, would the sight of you, not knowing you, drive me mad? A Modernist-style Merry and Pippin tale. NON-SLASH *COMPLETED*
1. Prolouge

"That's what they mean by the love that passeth understanding: that pride, that furious desire to hide that abject nakedness which we bring here with us, . . . carry stubbornly and furiously with us to the earth again."

-_As I Lay Dying_ William Faulkner

I'm haunted  
By the hallways in this tiny room  
The echoes there of me and you  
The voices that are carrying this tune

-_Haunted_ Poe

***

If a lifetime were to pass, would I remember you? Would you remember me? What if it were many lifetimes; thousands of years from the last time I said goodbye to you. Do you suppose we would still know each other's faces? I've often wondered what it would be like; me and you meeting each other down the road. Would our conversation be casual? Or would we dredge old, painful memories? I hate those. I don't like to see you cry. It burns my throat. I suppose our clothes would be completely different. Will you still wear your hair the same way? It's so messy, I can't see how you would change it. Unless, of course, you weren't born with your hair. But then you wouldn't you so we wouldn't be meeting at all, unless we were. I wonder if the sight of you after so long would drive me mad. So, would I remember you? I like to think I would. You've got nice eyes. They give you away in a crowd. You wouldn't be able to fool, if you were to try and hide away. I'd know you by your eyes. Of course that leaves the question to be, would you remember me? And, well, we both know the answer to that. If I know you, then you know me. We always seem to be drawn to each other, anyway. I'll find you without even realizing it. And then you'll find me. And we'll find each other. 


	2. A Modern Tale in the First State

_They say the all the beauty has left the world. It's a terribly depressing idea, but I'm inclined to believe it. I see no beauty in the streets of today's world, where bums lie openly absorbing in the effects of the latest wonder drug. There is nothing beautiful in the crush-or-be-crushed society that we have created. But the fruits are ours as we have grown and now we must suffer their ill tastes in our wretched mouths._

June 13

The computer shut off with a disgusted sigh. Writing was meant to calm Mason down and set his mind more easy, but all it had done for him lately was anger and upset him. And the hot, sticky air was helping very little. The warm weather from the Gulf of Mexico had drifted in as it always has, but he couldn't remember a summer in Kansas City yet being this deadening. 

He had arrived to his hometown earlier that week, after spending several weeks vacationing in New York with a friend that he couldn't say he genuinely liked. Mason was staying in a small duplex, where the rent was affordable but extremely high for a building with no central air. His neighbors were mixed up in a meth-ring and he was certain it was only a matter of days before the KBI burst in on them. He couldn't complain though, it was hard finding a place to live cheaply with enough room to for him to keep his sanity.

The sun was reaching it's noon peak when he decided to go for a walk. There was an all-right diner not so far off, and a park a little ways further. Fresh air might clear his mind. Sliding on a pair of sandals, and pulling on a pair of sunglasses, he grabbed his keys and wallet before locking his home up tight and leaving.

He'd lived in the run-down parts of the Midwestern town all of his life. Back when he'd still had parents even. Of course, he didn't remember anything about those days, he'd taken his fosters parents' word on it. All eight sets. He'd found out quickly that the monthly checks lost their appeal abruptly and soon. And for as long as he'd been in the sprawling city, he'd been alone. By the time he'd headed off to Lawrence, to the University of Kansas where most in his high school had ended up, he'd given up on his fellow man.

He had turned to writing when he had been roughly ten. He'd started scrawling out random blurbs about his foster families that comforted him in harsh times. From then on, he'd filled countless notebooks up with his thoughts, with stories, with poetry…they were currently stored in boxes that lined the floor of his small cellar. 

Stuffing his wallet in his back pocket he took off down the sidewalk, his mind set on food and fresh air.

***

Perhaps the neighborhood park had not been the best place to sketch, Parker thought dejectedly. The only subjects he found were fast-paced kids and old people, the first of which would not sit still long enough for him to draw, and the second of which held no interest to him. He was beginning to hate his choice of moving back to Kansas City from California. The weather was dreadful, to say the least, and the population was beginning to dull him. 

He had never had any doubts, however, that he would end up back in the city that had been his home for so long. While he was not a native, he'd been born in the state capital of Topeka, he lived there far longer than his four years in his birthplace. He couldn't say that he liked Kansas City, to be sure he found it dirty and mean. And much too large. Though it did not have too impressive of a population size, it sprawled out aimlessly for miles. And navigating was simply horrendous. But Parker had never been one to complain…

He'd moved out to California at age fifteen, when he'd thought he was in love with a girl who had dreams of Hollywood. After two months of living on the streets she'd told him he simply "didn't interest" her anymore and that he ought to leave. He headed to Santa Barbara, where he'd had an aunt at one time. He took up with a ragtag group of kids his age, but after a year, he'd had enough and left them. He got a job as a bus boy, and lived pretty all right, until he was nearing his nineteenth year, when he'd decided he missed home. That had been three months ago.

Now Parker sat alone in a park, with no subject to sketch. Defeated, he stood up and made his was to leave.

That was when he saw him.

***

The diner had been too crowded, so Mason had ducked out nearly as soon as he had gotten there. He wasn't much for crowds anymore. But he didn't feel like returning to his suffocating home yet, so he headed for the park on an empty stomach. Sometimes, he thought better with no food in him. That was rare, though. He kept his eyes on the weather, the air had a weighty feeling about it that usually came with a storm. It was getting late in the season for a good thunderstorm, but the weather had always been schizophrenic. 

The park was full of rambunctious kids with no parents in sight and elderly people reading on benches and talking about the good days. Same old, same old. He came to the park nearly every afternoon, at it was the same crowd each time. The kids generally disappeared around three, running home to a late afternoon snack while the old left their benches at four to catch an early supper. No one ever seemed to do things on time anymore.

He took his normal seat beneath a large shade tree and watched the kids play for awhile, wondering what had become of him to cause him to be so bored and depressed at the ripe age of twenty, when a feeling of familiarity and scrutiny swept over him. He glanced around and found someone, around his age, watching him closely. Even from the distance he sat he could tell the eyes were an astonishing gold-green shade. Goldish-brown hair, in bad need of a cut, formed a hectic halo about his head. Whoever he was, he didn't seem to notice he was being watched by the very person he was watching. A sketch book rested in his lap, and in his hand held a pencil, which was flying about professionally on the page. It unnerved Mason.

He stood. Perhaps the boy was merely looking for someone to sketch. Mason had to admit that he was the most likely. But that thought aside, the feelings emanating from the sketch-artist sent apprehension throughout him. Quickly, without notice, he left. As he exited through the park's gate, his eyes met the fabulous gold-green ones for a moment which seemed to stretch out forever, before he broke contact and, with a frown, he hurried home.

***

Parker was concentrating heavily on the piece of paper before him, so heavily he didn't notice his subject leave. He looked up from the sketch to only to have vacancy meet his eyes. Searching, he found the brown-haired young man hurrying out of the park. As he came to the gate, he looked back and met gaze with Parker. From where he sat, some many yards away, Parker fancied the eyes to be of the deepest blue. But the contact was quickly broken, and soon, the stranger was hurrying down the street.

Parker would not sleep well that night.

***

_Familiarity; it is a feeling I do not often encounter, but it has hit me with a force equal to that of a freight train. I have no idea who he is. I have never met him before. Why, then, do I feel as if I have shared lifetimes with him? Is it possible to know a face you've never before come across?_

_June 14_

It was late into the night, nearly time for sunrise, but Mason had not even begun to think about going to sleep. The meeting in the park weighed heavily on his mind. He could not say why. A deep sense of foreboding seemed to have settled over him. He could not get the image of the gold-green eyes out of his mind. They were not the eyes of a stranger. They were-

His thoughts were cut off short by raised voices from the next door over. When he had returned home from the park, he had noticed an obscene amount of cars parked in front of the duplex. Since then, occasional bumps and knocks on the walls had been frequent. Hushed voices had been present all night, and not one person had yet to leave. This was the first occurrence of shouting, however. His neighbors and their…guests, usually shied away from as much attention as possible. The only time the couple had spoken to him was to ask him to always shut the gate behind him when he left so their dog couldn't get out on the street.

With a creaking neck, Mason turned away from the computer and rubbed at his burning eyes. He really ought to get some sleep; he was due to meet an old friend, being a very loose term these days, for lunch on the Plaza at noon. For reasons that eluded him, he felt the need to make a good impression. He would have to hurry after lunch to make it to work by three. The bookstore he worked in, which was a rather deceiving name since it specialized in maps, was in Independence, and the traffic on the interstate was unpredictable. 

He went to bed, fully dressed, ten minutes later, but he never did get any rest. His dreams were plagued by a haunting stare from a pair of gold-green eyes.

***

His supplies were running low. He would have to run to the store first thing in the morning. Of course, he had work almost before the sun rose, but that mattered little. What mattered was that Parker was nearly out everything. Charcoal, graphite pencils, chalk and oil pastels, acrylics, colored pencils, water colors, children's crayons…

He had been drawing like a fiend since he first encountered the oddly bewitching stranger some hours before. His supplies of blues was nearly exhausted, and all shades of brown, red, and yellows (what color had his hair been?) were following suit. Countless sketches, haphazard paintings, and detailed works littered Parker's counter space, tabletops, and floor. He would have to pick up several boxes of pushpins as well. He needed to get the pieces of paper out of harms way, but within eyesight. He didn't want to forget a single detail.

Every light in his small apartment was going at full blast, counteracting the work of the ancient window unit, which was decrepitly pumping out as much cool air as possible. At times, he thought the scratches of the pencils on the paper were loud enough for his neighbors to hear, but no complaints came. They were only echoing in his mind it seemed. He was losing too many of the details…the look in the eyes was failing in his portrayals. He needed to find the blue-eyed stranger again.

Yet, it didn't seem appropriate to call him a stranger. Hadn't he known this person the moment he had laid eyes on him in the park? Even before then? His encounter with the nameless man seemed to have stirred deep memories of companionship deep within Parker. Feelings stronger than he could ever remember experiencing. And emanating off of the stranger had been something more known to Parker than his name. 

Loneliness. Swirling about him had been utter loneliness. There had not been a drop of hope within him. It had filled the air even after he had abruptly left. A faint whisper to the presence of a haunted being. A being so like him…

Just like him.

It was like looking in mirror and

Just like him.

seeing himself, only with a different face.

Green-gold began to brighten to blue.

His thoughts were beginning

Just like him.

to jumble.

His hair had most definitely been of the richest honey-brown possible.

***

The heavy clouds, a foreboding shade of gray, did nothing to help with the heat. The humidity caused the linen shirt Mason wore to stick grotesquely to his back as he left the restaurant and hurried down to the block to his car. The smell of rain was thick in the air, and distantly, the soft rumble of thunder echoed.

He'd ruined the good impression he'd been hoping for. During lunch, he'd been unable to concentrate on what his companion had been saying. Incessant chatter, surely. No one ever had anything worthwhile to say anymore. Conversation these days were very overrated. It seemed as though people spoke without having any need. But that hadn't been the only problem…

A daunting shadow of sorts had hung over him ever since he had gotten out of bed that morning. It had pushed aside even thoughts of the green-eyed stranger from the previous afternoon. Perhaps it hadn't over-powered the thoughts of the boy, though. It almost seemed to have been given birth from the hectic contemplation over him. He'd had dreams…they hadn't made any sense though. The eyes had been there but…the person had been different. Almost seeming to be a young boy, and yet at the same time, grown. And there had been trees…that weren't trees.

It was almost as if he were feverish; at times, it was almost as though he were on fire from the images, while moments later he would feel as though dead and cold from the feelings they surfaced.

Despair.

Irrationality.

_Fear_.

All of these raged on inside, more violent than even the approaching storm threatened to be. Mason rolled down the passenger window of his car, glaring at the useless air vents. His own driver's side window had long ago broken and threatened to fall out of it's slot every time it was rolled open. When he started up the car, he revved the engine several times before pulling out; it still missed horribly on the drive. The clouds seemed to be descending in the sky. Shudder. Shudder. Shudder. He barely noticed the missing anymore. The clouds were really getting low.

Green had always been his favorite color.

***

The people without faces were swarming about the 

a darkened complexion

room; of course they must had had faces at one point, it was silly

or had that been the shade

to think otherwise. Everyone had face. Except now they didn't. The only face

of the tree he had been sitting under

there was anymore was

?

his. 

Blue blue blue bl

It didn't matter though, he had his supplies; work would un

ueblueblueblueblueblue

derstand, he couldn't take anymore people without faces

b l u e

.


	3. A Story of Two Hobbits in the Summer

The summer sun is the best thing in the world to share with your closest friend. That's why Pip and I were always laying about it with each other when we had the opportunity. The fresh grass suited him well, the vibrant quality of it bringing out his eyes spectacularly. Of course he always says the same thing about the sky and me. Maybe we just suit each other. Whatever it is, it draws me to him, and always has. Most likely it always will.

"Merry?" Pip and I were wallowing about near Brandy Hall one day, and I had thought him asleep until he said my name.

"Yes, Pip?"

"What do you think life would have been like if we hadn't known each other?" He propped himself up on his elbows, eyes unusually thoughtful.

"Well, that's a silly question. We're family, we'd always know each other."

"But what if we hadn't? For some reason, any reason. A feud. Bad timing."

"Bad timing?" I smiled. "Well, if for some reason the timing really _was_ that bad and we just never crossed paths, I suppose life would be…quieter."

He nodded, but said nothing. I continued. "Quieter, most definitely. And lonely. Who would I laugh with if I didn't know you? Or steal mushrooms with?"

"Well, that's just it. You'd have a different best friend. Maybe you'd go off to Bag End and live with Frodo, you know, since he's all alone." He began picking at several blades of grass, and the beginning of a very sullen expression was starting over his countenance. I knew the look the well. Pippin was brooding.

"First of all, Frodo enjoys living by himself, and the only hobbit in existence he would want living with him is Bilbo, and you know that. Sec-"

"He wouldn't tell you no, and you know that!" A frown was now clearly placed.

"But that's not the point. I wouldn't want to intrude on our cousin. And _second_," I eyed him as to ward off any further interruptions, "I can't think of ever having a different…well, _you_. You're my Pip, and mine alone, you know that don't you?" I absently ran my hand through his curls.

He tried to hide it, but he was smiling. "Yes, I know," he finally gave in. "And you're my Mer." He paused for a few moments, the mood about him lightening decidedly. "Speaking of our dear cousin, I'd say it's about time for us to pay him a visit. It's been weeks!" He sprang up out of the grass and began racing toward home, shouting all the way, "Come on, Mer! You must be getting slow in your old age!"

When we did reach the town of Hobbiton, some days later as Pippin was quiet fond of side trips, the first person we met was Frodo's gardener, Sam Gamgee. Sam's got more sense in his little pinky than I'll wager half of the Shire, but he certainly lacks the confidence to show it most of the time. He was very shy to near point of being clumsy around us. Pip and I met him in the Green Dragon, where we stopped for a quick drink before heading up Bagshot Row to Bag End.

Pippin was always a favorite at the Green Dragon. As a matter of fact, he's a favorite at nearly every pub in the Shire. His first few rounds are always paid by well-meaning hobbits, just enough to loosen him up, and somehow it ends in Pippin buying the entire pub occupancy more rounds than can be safely consumed. It's really quite amazing how the entire thing plays out the same every time. Except on this particular excursion, as I firmly put my foot down after two drinks. I didn't want Frodo's first sight in weeks of his younger cousin to be of him stumbling in to his cozy hobbit hole in a demeaning state of drunkenness. Although I did miss the usual song and dance.

As we were making our way up the Row, Pippin lazily slung an arm over my shoulder, and I patted him on the back. Sometimes we just didn't need words.

Frodo was, apparently, not at home, but for the life of me I could not figure out where he was. Sam Gamgee, who had left the Green Dragon not long after Pip and I had, told us he expected Frodo would come home before long, and not to worry. He was probably just out on a quiet walk.

"Quiet?" I turned to Pip who was sprawled out on the dirt path leading from the gate to the door. "If he's in a quiet mood I'm not sure he'll want you around," I emphasized my point with a light kick into his side.

"Do you suppose we'd know each other if met again in different lives?" The question had come out of nowhere.

I groaned, plopping down in the grass beside him. "Not this again, what's with the philosophical Pippin lately?"

He ignored my question. "Do you think we would?"

"I don't see why not. I can tell if it's you coming down the road by the mere clop of your pony's hooves. Why shouldn't I recognize you in another life?"

"That's different."

"It is not."

Yes, it is. That's this life. What if I look different? What if you look different?" He turned his head to look up into my eyes. That green again… "What if your hair wasn't brown? What if your eyes weren't blue? How would I know you?"

"What's all this about different lives, anyway. Isn't one enough for you? Need to carry out mischief across multiple generations? Will we have Peregrin Took tormenting the Shire for generations to come?" The sun was nearly down. I wished Frodo would come home soon, and interrupt this conversation.

"Don't hop around the question, Merry." He sounded more serious than he ever had before.

"Why not?" Suddenly angry, I leapt off of the ground. "Why are you asking these things, Pippin? Why do you need to wonder like this?"

"The inquisitiveness of the Tooks."

"That's not it! I don't like it when you talk like this Pip. It…It makes me sad." Slowly, I sat down with my back against a gatepost.

"Why? It's a question," he looked genuinely confused. "That's all."

"I know, Pip, its only…I don't like to think of needing another lifetime with you. I just…I want this one to continue…forever."

He was silent for several moments before he spoke to me again. "But that can't happen, Merry. You know that." When had little Pippin become this thoughtful, this deep? I thought he would drop the subject there, but he didn't. "I think if I saw in a another lifetime and I didn't know you…I believe I would just nearly go mad."

"Pippin, please, don't." It was totally dark now. We could have gone inside, but we didn't.

"And I think if I went mad, you would too." His voice was so young, the words sounded awkward and gross coming from it.

"Yes, I suppose I would. Now please, stop."

"Stop what?" A new voice entered the conversation, disturbing the stillness ours had been brought to. We both looked at the gate and saw Frodo there, opening it. We hadn't heard him walk up it.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. It's good to see you, cousin."


	4. A Modern Tale in the Final State

He'd been too scared to go back to the park ever again. His car had continued missing until it had died. What if he wasn't there? He still had yet to buy a new one. The children had stopped gathering outside as much, the late July heat too much for them. When he bought a new one he'd get a green one. His neighbors had been arrested a week after the argument. He'd bought a lot of green things lately. Someone else had moved in not long afterwards. Green shirts, green towels, green soap. He hadn't met them yet. Green was beginning to be the primary color in his home. They were pretty quiet. There hadn't been a storm in a long while. His computer had pretty much been running since over a month ago when he'd begun writing. He wondered a lot about his new neighbor. He hadn't stopped writing yet. Green sheets. The KBI had come in a rather non-dramatic manner to take them away. He'd need a new car before long. He wished he wasn't so frightened of returning to the park. There hadn't even been any clouds in the sky since it had stormed just before he'd quit his job. There were reams upon reams of printed works he'd done in the last month. He thought his new neighbor was afraid of the dark.

_There's a nearby restaurant hiring servers, but I don't think I've the attention for a job as tasking as that. Being a server requires great skill of the mind. I'm not nearly qualified for it, mentally. But I need work soon, but savings are almost spent. It must be the green. I had another dream about the green eyes. #26 _

July 25

***

He'd solved his dilemma. With no one around, there were no non-faces to look upon. Relocating had been difficult, but he'd managed. A new job had helped him ensure that the non-faces were not really non-faces because they had never had faces before if he never seen them before they were non-faces. 

He was still picking bits of that pencil from his hand.

He'd pinned his latest sketches up on the wall, he liked to be reminded of what he'd accomplished already. The jaw-line was coming along nicely. 

Who is he?

The girl he had loved-not-being-in-love-with had hunted him down a week before. She'd pretended to be interested in the drawings, but the only thing she had been after were a few free drinks. She'd said she was sorry. Asked if he'd wanted to get together. He'd told her no. She'd stuck 

Who is he?

around a few hours anyway; spent a few minutes inspecting the pin-ups on the wall more closely. She'd told him he was obsessed and weird and had left in a huff. He just didn't understand people nowadays. And frankly, he didn't have any desire to. After she had left, he'd been distracted, and angry. Angry at girl, at the lack of understanding she showed, at the non-faces, at the blanks in his memory of the stranger.

The splinters of wood were slowly becoming infected.

Countless sheets of his best paper had been hastily ruined in his frustration. He hadn't been paying close attention.

He hadn't bothered to wash or bandage it.

When the shaft the pencil had broken, he'd barely taken notice of the sharp edge forcing itself into the palm of his hand. He'd quickly shoved the materials in front of him out of the way as soon as it had started bleeding. There was no use in ruining anything else.

It was an odd shade of purplish-black.

He hadn't been able to properly hold a pencil, or anything else for that matter, for days, It still stung, but he just gritted his 

the batteries had been giving out for sometime but he

teeth and dealt with it. There was no use complaining, as there was no one to hear him. So he'd spent the time studying the pin-ups gathering a composite image of the stranger.

His veins surrounding it were grossly enhanced, a brilliant shade of

When he bothered to sleep, he dreamed that he held conversations with him. His face had always been slightly shadowed, so there were no 

didn't pay much attention to the dying shriek.

definite features, but he knew who it was nonetheless. They talked like old friends. They were old friends. In the dreams anyway. 

blue.

He'd gone back to the park everyday afterwards, after work, to look for him. He was never there. But he never gave up looking.

Maybe he'd show up one day.

***

At first he had thought it an alarm clock ignored. His hands were cramping again. But now it was more like a tiny being screaming. Time for a break. Screech, screech, screech. Noise from the street filtered in through his open windows. Tomorrow was trash day. The screaming was continuing. Maybe he would lie down. The screech had a definite electrical bite to it. He was feeling rather groggy. He needed to find work soon. Groggy wasn't it thought. Screee

eeech.

It was more of an off-color sort of feel. Did he have trash bags? There were kids on the sidewalk outside for once. Weighty, like a storm. His hands weren't feeling any better. Was there any trash to be taken out? Still more and more screaming. Something was clicking inside him. He could hear the squeals of delight that always marked a water-fight. Definitely not an alarm clock. He looked down at the couch. Clickety click click. It was worn from use. It was sort of tingling now, instead outright pain. He never slept in his bed anymore. Scree

eech.

He couldn't sleep now, though. He would have to go put that more tortured thing out of its misery first.

The sun was bright.

***

The batteries would be dead soon. Most definitely. He hoped they would, anyway. He was too short to reach it. He wondered briefly if his neighbor noticed. If he even had a neighbor. He'd never met them if he did. They never complained, if they were there, about his lights running full-time though. Never made any noise at all. Or left the house. He was pretty sure someone lived in the other half though; he could occasionally hear doors shutting softly through the thin walls.

Why didn't this place have an air-conditioner? It wouldn't be hard to believe if the papers on the wall suddenly began melting. He thought his brain already was. The ceiling fan was too ancient to really do much good.

Knock.

Parker looked away from the wall and toward the door. He paused.

Knock.

Yes, there was definitely someone out there.

KNOCK.

What to do?

KNOCK KNOCK. 

The logical idea was to answer. But what if it was a non-face?

KNOCK KNOCK. 

An angry voice followed the knock. Parker gave one last look to the wall.

Who is he?

He went to the door.

***

He began knock. It was hot. And knock. KNOCK.KNOCK KNOCK. KNOCK KNOCK. Someone was home. They were afraid of the dark. Someone had to be home. Mason had seen the lights.

The door opened. But Mason refused to believe.

Green green green green. Always the green.

"It's you." The voice didn't seem to want to believe either. "I know you."

"I'm your neighbor," Mason answered weakly.

"You're him. The blue."

"And you're the green."

There was pause, filled with the screeching from inside.

"Is that an alarm clock?" Mason asked dumbly. He shifted his weight, suddenly feeling awkward and judged.

"No. Smoke detector. Sorry, the batteries are dying, I just tried to tune it out."

"Oh yeah…it's just that I can hear it over in my place."

"I'll take it down." He halted his speech without really pausing. "I know you."

"Yeah, I know you too." He wiped his hand across his sweaty brow. The not-unfamiliar-stranger noticed his discomfort. 

"Would you like to come in? There's no air conditioning but…"

"Er…sure."

***

Parker held the door open awkwardly, the act paining his hand greatly. The blue-eyed stranger entered slowly, almost hesitantly. It was until then that Parker remembered the walls…

"Whoa…"

***

Mason ran his hands along the wall, seeing himself in every image in some way. In one, there was his eyes. In another, his cheeks, and so on. They literally covered the wall, and randomly placed were other pieces paper, these carrying a simple phrase.

Who is he?

WHO IS HE?

****

WHO IS HE?

_WHO IS HE?_

WHO IS HE?

Mason turned to face him.

***

"I'm Mason."

"A name for the face. Parker."

"A name for the text." Parker raised an eyebrow but asked no questions. Mason studied a few more of the drawings. "Do you remember the trees?" He asked off-handedly. 

Parker raised an eyebrow. "I remember something." He sat in a chair.

"Good. I thought…" Mason couldn't finish his sentence.

"Thought you were going mad?" Parker spoke clearly, knowingly.

"Yeah," Mason answered softly. "For awhile, I think I was."

"Me too." There was silence once more as the two watched each other. "Do you want to go grab something to eat? There's a diner not so far away."

"Ok."

***

_I think I'm starting to see some of the beauty in the world. It hasn't all left us, it seems. I'm taking the year off from school. Maybe I won't go back ever. I'll decide when the time comes. We moved into a new apartment; the heat was beginning to make me ill. And I don't think Parker could take any longer either. He finally finished his painting. I don't think it much looks like me; the face is somewhat more full, and it makes me look much younger, but Parker swears that's how he sees me. I guess I can't argue. He got the blue right. I told him to work on the green the next._

August 5


	5. An Epilouge of Hobbity Proportions

I was lying in the overgrown grass when a shadow passed between myself and the sun. I was too tired from spending all day working to open eyes. I knew who it had to be, who it always was. He'd been away for months. I hadn't seen him since early autumn, and it was now late spring. It was the longest I could ever remember having gone without seeing his smiling eyes. But as they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder…

"Being lazy while everyone else is working so hard, dear cousin?" His voice was like laughter itself.

"Ah, you know me too well, little one."

"I'm not so little! I'll bet I'm as tall as you are now! I'm much taller than even Pimpernel now." He'd always been a runt, and I knew without looking that, while he may indeed be taller than his sisters, he was bluffing in his comparison to me.

"Well, before you know it you will be the tallest hobbit ever to grace the Shire."

The shadow went away, and I felt him lie down beside me. It was comforting, having him so close. "Don't tease, Merry."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Pippin."

For a long time we lay there, enjoying the feeling of the grass beneath us, the sun above us, and the nearness of one another. No words were exchanged, no looks shared. Simply enjoying the other's company.

The sun was low in the sky when he sat up, shaking my shoulder. I hadn't been asleep, and he'd known that. It was just a gesture. "Merry?"

I finally opened my eyes to behold him. He _had_ grown, I could tell even as he sat. His face was fuller, and yet it lacked the round, baby-ish quality it had still attained when I had last seen him. "Yes Pippin?"

"Do you ever feel like we're in story?"

"A story?"

"Yes like one of Cousin Bilbo's?"

"Hmm…I doubt that we'd ever be in one of Bilbo's. Unless we're at the beginning of the tale yet."

"Hmm…no, this doesn't feel like a beginning to me. Does it feel like a beginning to you?" He looked over at me, his green-gold eyes eager for an answer.

"I couldn't really say."

He didn't seem disappointed by my answer. "It feels like a conclusion to me."

"A conclusion? To what?"

"A meeting. Our meeting."

"Pippin, we met when you're born. Not today."

"I know that. But…it feels as though, today, we've finally known one another."

I was quiet for a moment before I nodded. "I know what you mean."

"I thought it would be terribly awkward, seeing you again after so many months apart. But, it wasn't. It has always has been before. But now…I don't need you to fill me in on how you have been, and you have been doing. I feel like…I already know."

"Well," I gave a cheeky grin, "I have been sending you regular letters with all the latest news from the Hall."

"That's not what I mean," he gave a forced frown and threw and handful of grass at me. I gave an indignant holler and proceeded to tackle him to the ground, where we wrestled about until coming once more to rest on our backs, panting for breath this time.

"This has all the feelings of an ending. Of wrapping-up loose ends."

"…will there ever be another tale?"

"I should think so. 'The road goes ever on' after all."

"We will be in it? Or is this the end of our part in it?"

"Well, that's a silly question, dear hobbit!" He sprang up from the ground, pulling me with him. "We've had no adventures to speak of! Of course we will be in the next tale. We shall be the heroes in a great epic. I can feel it!" He was grinning from ear to ear. "Now, race to you river!" In a spiel of laughter he began running at full speed. I held back, smiling at his shrinking form, allowing him a head start. My legs were, after all, much longer than his. Before he was completely out of sight, I tore off after him, allowing my own laughter to follow his. It was good to see him again.

Perhaps this is the end of our tale, perhaps it is the beginning. Whatever it is, there will be many more after it. His and mine together. Though miles may separate us, or mountains, or seas, or any other obstacle, I will always find him. If the years keep us apart for so long his face is unknown to mine, I will still know him, deep down, somehow. He is my best friend.

He is my Pippin. Always. 


End file.
